


Weighted gifts

by Kit



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit/pseuds/Kit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Kincaid would, I think, have gone to Murphy to offer what comfort he could.</em> Jared Kincaid is lyrical (and worried) about a look in Murphy's eye.</p><p>Spoilers for Ghost Story. A gift fic, with the prompt of "Swords."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weighted gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seori/gifts).



Karrin never stopped carrying the P90. She’s lost her job, husbands, too many pounds and whatever the fuck she saw in Dresden’s arrogant flesh, and she kept that all the same.

Hell, she wore the thing in _bed_ with her, from when she first took it out of its box. Picture it: warm sun had poured over us like touch, highlighting all the more interesting sorts of bruises that can show up around consenting adults’ wrists, shoulders, hips and thighs, and she _still_ wore it even as she laughed. Hotel rooms in Hawaii; Seattle; a Chicago train station at two in the morning, with the two of us kissing so hard that we both bled: she still carried it. Every time and anywhere (Whenever there was actual _talking_ , there was a devolution into bad packing jokes.)  

She still carries it. I can feel it, now, my hands hard against shoulder and holster, its casing slick under it all and warming to my blood and hers, all while she kisses me and uses the wall and my weight to hook her legs around my hips.

It’s easy enough to hold someone when they’re a third your size and _want_ you to, and I don’t know why I’m being so fucking lyrical about all of this. I blame Ivy, fourteen and breathing in all the _words_ Dresden’s friends have brought into the world. Their platitudes and fears, their angst and sorrow and grief and, shit, whatever _this_ is: the look in Karrin’s eyes the one time she’s taken the time to study my face this evening. A strange, wild, wide look that she shook free with a small growl and choked-off laugh as we both smashed into my wall. She hasn’t looked at me since, and I’m hardly complaining, given the fierce touch she offers in its place, but I’ve still got too many damn words in my head, and that light in her eye was a sword—stuck in the pair of us, even while it was nowhere near, at all.  


End file.
